A nagging dissatisfaction afflicted her as it afflicted most young women of her education and class. She wanted love, and a good man, eventually children, but more, more. Not to grow old surrounded by housework. To be something, herself, not Guy's wife, but herself. Life made into a progression of startling events, so that each day there might be a party or a new friend, something to offer brightness and interest. There was Guy, drunk, his impotence becoming more fixed by the week. Bunny began to misread his prose, to softly criticize it, so that he seethed and snapped at her. She wasn't helping him, and she felt old, at twenty-five. There were girl with whom she had gone to school whose lives were dazzling in their excitement and fun. On the surface, in any event. What to do with these women? What is it that has made them so dissatisfied with themselves? Why do they marry either erratic neurotics like Guy, or young lawyers and doctors who send them off to Long Island all summer? Our of commercials, they walk on the beach, slim, tanned, lovely, their children playing in the sand, they swing their beach bags cutely, they die in front of your eyes as they guzzle their Pepsi.

Why, oh why, are we presented with this immovable life? Desperately normal, and filled with the most incredibly uninteresting phenomena. A leader of cheers, a beautiful girl, the belle of her high school. North Shore High, well-integrated, a good football team, an Arista, which Bunny made in her sophomore year. Political science was her chief interest. One day she fell down and scraped her knee. One day she had her period and her mother told her she was growing up. One day she read The Sound and the Fury and cried. She did a lot of things, every day. Said a lot of things, conversation, they call it. You put it into quote marks and demonstrate your ear. She was a very nice girl, a good human being, and she met Guy Lewis. Guy took her to galleries and showed her how the painters did it. This was later in her career, when she was going to Barnard, majoring in psych. She wore a silver friendship ring that her first lover had given her. Guy wasn't curious in the least about it, and they had their first argument. Bunny wanted him to be jealous, she waited to see flakes scale off him. But Guy was wasting inside, into his third novel now, and writing film criticism.

She wanted to help Guy, oh, not in any corny way, but be his Wife, be his Mate. She believed in his stories, his novels, and his criticism.